


The Curse of Cheap Motels

by Lenore



Category: Smallville
Genre: Future Fic, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-27
Updated: 2011-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-23 03:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lex is getting married, again, and Bruce is supposed to get him to the church on time. He has another plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curse of Cheap Motels

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://annakas.livejournal.com/profile)[**annakas**](http://annakas.livejournal.com/). Also, I have blatantly lifted the use of the surname "De Medici" from [](http://emrinalexander.livejournal.com/profile)[**emrinalexander**](http://emrinalexander.livejournal.com/). It was a brilliant idea, and I hope you don't mind that I've glommed onto it, Em!

Lex had a problem with drinking too much; the problem was that he had a disturbing habit of ending up in cheap motels afterwards, always with somebody named Bambi, who upon closer inspection when he sobered up was old enough to be his mother or actually a man or on some occasions both. This time around, he wasn't in any hurry to open his eyes, but from the way everything was vibrating, he had to guess he was on one of those beds with the Magic Fingers, and Bambi had foolishly fed it an entire stack of quarters.

"Feeling better, I trust?"

Lex 's eyes flew open. He knew that voice, and if he'd somehow ended up in a vibrating bed with Bruce Wayne, that was taking the whole curse of the cheap motels thing just a little too far.  
Happily, though, the Magic Fingers turned out to be the Batmobile, idling in traffic, with him ensconced in the passenger seat.

"I'm not responsible for the extinction of the dinosaurs or the fact that the Cubs haven't won the World Series since 1908 or whatever you're going to harangue me about." The Justice League was always trying to pin some misdeed on him, the vast majority of which he was utterly innocent of, although some of those misdeeds did strike him as rather a good idea.

Bruce chuckled. "Well, it's good to see your grandiose sense of persecution hasn't been diminished by all those bottles of Cristal you went through."

Lex righted himself in the seat as well as he could. Hangovers messed with his equilibrium. "Are you taking me back to the Batcave to use rubber hoses and electrodes on my sensitive places in the hopes of extracting information about my nefarious plans?"

Bruce's gaze moved over him speculatively. "That does sound interesting, but I'll have to pass this time."

"Then where are we going?" Lex asked. Patience was too much to expect from him when his head was threatening to split open and he smelled disturbingly like the floor of a public men's room.

"Does 'get me to the church on time' ring any bells?"

"You're a true friend of the musical theater, Bruce. I've always said so."

Batman's displeased scowl gave him a hearty laugh, until his head started to pound even worse than before, and then it was less funny. "You got any hooch in here?" he asked, opening the glove compartment, sifting through grappling hooks and anti-gravity belts. Hair of the dog, he figured.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Hooch, Lex?"

He shrugged. "Five years in Smallville will have an impact on your vocabulary."

"I'm sure I shouldn't do this," Bruce said, pressing a button. A panel in the dashboard slid back, and there was Lex's favorite Scotch snugly tucked away.

"Ready for anything, I admire that, Bruce." He lifted the bottle in a toast before downing a third of it.

"You do realize that a man who feels the need to get this drunk before his wedding probably has no business getting married."

"Nonsense," Lex insisted. "I've gotten this drunk before all my weddings."

"My point exactly," Bruce shot back.

Lex ignored that and said with a wave of the hand, "Have you never heard of the jitters?"

"You've been through this six times. I would have thought you'd be all jittered out by now."

"Is that a dig about my marital track record?" Lex frowned at him. "Because I have had some bad luck, you know."

"I merely wish to point out that you started drinking last Thursday."

"Seventh time's the charm," Lex declared jovially. "That calls for celebration if anything does."

"Have you done any checking at all into Miss Bambi De Medici's background?"

Lex had met her the last time he'd tied one on. She was different from the garden-variety Bambi, no penis, not eligible for social security any time soon. That had left an impression. He'd decided to stop fighting his apparent destiny and make this Bambi his own.

"She comes from a very old family, of course. They're cultured, well-connected, colorful."

"I think the word you want is 'infamous'."

Lex went on as if he hadn't heard a word. "Bambi lost her mother at an early age. We share that in common."

"She lost her to an insane asylum. After the woman went on a cross-country poisoning spree."

"And, of course, Bambi is quite well educated."

"Her dissertation was titled: 'Lucretia Borgia: A New Appreciation'."

Lex scoffed, "That doesn't mean a thing."

Bruce corrected him, "It means you'll be lucky to last the honeymoon." And added dryly, "As usual."

"I must ask you not to slander my bride." The words came out sounding more like 'anter i bry'. He was feeling strangely fuzzy headed, and whenever he looked outside, the world seemed to have turned into one giant moire pattern.

"Yes, well, if you get out of this alive, I must ask you never to press me into being your best man again. It's a thankless job. And really, Lex, did it ever occur to you that there might be a _reason_ why you keep marrying all the wrong people?"

Lex slumped against the window, his vision going slowly dark. _I might have preferred the rubber hoses and electrodes after all_ was his last conscious thought.

* * *

When he woke again, there was no vibrating, only something very hard and cold beneath his ass. He had the unhappy notion it might be the ground. From above him, came two separate voices.

"First, you _drug_ him..." a voice filled with outrage was going on.

It was very familiar outrage.

"Yes, well," a deadpan voice, also familiar, responded, "he's much more tractable that way."

"...and _then_ you dump him on me."

"I thought you made it a point to clean up your own messes. Or does that not apply where he's concerned?"

There was a heavy sigh. Lex tried his best to turn in its direction, but his neck didn't seem to want to cooperate. It didn't matter anyway, because Clark bent down beside him, saving him the effort. "Hey, how's your head feeling?"

"Like someone's been doing demolition in there."

"Yeah, well," Clark put a hand on his back, "you can blame your buddy Bruce for that."

"Why does it always have to be the Scotch?" he asked, of no one in particular.

Only then did it occur to him that he was having a reasonable conversation with Clark, a habit he'd given up more than a decade ago.

He put on the fiercest scowl he could manage given how desperately he wanted to throw up. "I'm not responsible for global warming _or_ the programming decisions made by the Fox network."

Usually this was Clark's cue to begin cataloguing his many sins, up to and including that time he'd accidentally split himself in two when he was trying to cure world hunger, but this time Clark just patted him on the shoulder. "I know, Lex. What say we get you inside, huh?"

Clark helped him to his feet, and Lex finally got a look where they were. Yellow house. Barn. White picket fence.

"No." He shook his head emphatically. "Absolutely not."

He hadn't dreaded anything for—he really couldn't remember the last time—but just the thought of going into that house made him feel he might melt into a pool of nothing, much the way the Wicked Witch of the West might have reacted to a proposed trip to the water park.

"It's okay," Clark told him, pushing him forward. "No one's home. Mom and Dad went to visit my aunt Cecile in Des Moines. That's why I'm here, to take care of the farm."

"Well, I see you've got this situation under control," Bruce said to Clark with the usual degree of irony, "I'll meet you at the church tomorrow, Lex, if you haven't come to your senses by then."

Lex glared over his shoulder. "See if I ever ask you to be my best man again."

Bruce laughed as he got back into the car, and the Batmobile shot away.

Clark guided Lex up the steps to the house, and Lex's stomach started to lurch. He wasn't sure if it was the fourteen margaritas he'd had, whatever Bruce had put in his hooch, or simply the past making him queasy. Despite his best efforts, he just couldn't make it to the bathroom, heaving up six days worth of celebrating into a potted Chrysanthemum sitting by the door on the porch.

"That's okay," Clark told him. "Mom doesn't really like that plant anyway."

Lex rested his head against the doorframe, squeezing his eyes shut. "Just kill me now."

"Isn't that your wife's job? I wouldn't want to step on any toes." Clark sounded unaccountably bitter.

Lex pulled himself up with as much dignity as he could muster given that his mortal enemy had just been party to his puking. "Do you really want to get into an in-depth analysis of the people in my life who have hurt me?"

Clark had the good grace to duck his head and look sheepish. That was different. The next thing Lex knew dogs would be lying down with cats, Republicans would be voting for Ralph Nader.

"Come on," Clark said, with renewed practicality. "Let's get you upstairs, so you can sleep it off."

"I have to get to the church on time."

"I'll make sure you do. But first, rest."

Clark helped him up the stairs and to the room at the end of the hall, but Lex refused to go past the door. "Absolutely not." Not Clark's room, not now, not ever. He was putting his foot down.

"Would you rather sleep in Mom and Dad's bed?"

Damn Clark, anyway.

He let himself be steered inside and tried not to look at anything, tried to clear his mind of even a single thought.

"Do you want to take anything off?" Clark asked, not helping matters.

"No." Lex scowled at him.

"Not even your belt? 'Cause the buckle…that's going to leave a mark."

Lex folded his arms across his chest, daring Clark to say one more word about it.

Clark rolled his eyes. "Fine. Make things harder than they need to be. You're good at that." He unslung Lex's arm from his neck. "Enjoy your sleep." And started to leave.

"Is there a clock? I need to set the alarm."

Clark shook his head. "I can wake you. I'll make sure you get there on time."

"The wedding's at four."

"Yeah," Lex thought he heard him say, but wasn't sure, "I know." Then Clark was gone.

Lex just stood there, for a good five minutes, trying to stare down the bed the way he did other CEOs during business negotiations. It was hard to know how to approach it, this innocent-looking piece of furniture that had played a starring role in his hottest fantasies through the first half of his twenties. Oh, who was he kidding? The whole damned decade. _Just a bed,_ he told himself. _Nothing special about it. Just some cotton-poly blend sheets and a sun-faded comforter with some truly unfortunate red piping on it._

He took a deep breath and threw the covers back and got in. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to gauge his own response. No, not even a tingle. It was a relief and yet one of the worst letdowns of his life. Some things weren't supposed to die, no matter how much you wished they would.

Lex's eyes drifted closed after a while, although he really doubted he'd be able to sleep.

* * *

When his eyes fluttered open again, a pool of sunlight had overtaken the floor, and whatever he'd been dreaming dissolved away, just a few last images lingering for a moment, Mrs. Kent in a French maid's outfit, his father with a riding crop. He quickly purged it from his mind and took stock of his situation. His stomach was rumbling, but not in the run-for-the-bathroom way. The pain in his head had been downgraded to a dull throb. He caught a whiff of coffee coming from downstairs, and for a moment it seemed like the world might not be out to get him after all.

He yawned as he got out of bed and noticed that a pile of clothes had been laid out for him, sweatpants and a T-shirt, white athletic socks, Clark's things. Lex steered clear of them, too many memories from those few days he'd lived here, memories of borrowed flannel and the fantasies he'd jerked off to for years afterwards.

Downstairs, he found Clark sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper. Lex glanced at Mrs. Kent's red rooster clock and squinted, just to make sure he was reading the hands right.

"It's two o'clock, Clark," he said belligerently.

Clark looked up from his paper. "Oh, hey, Lex. Good morning. Or I guess I should say good afternoon."

Lex stomped his foot. "Of all the underhanded—you _promised_ you'd wake me up in time. It's _two_. It takes three hours to get to Metropolis, even with my driving. And I need time to get ready—"

He stopped mid rant when he spotted a garment bag with his tailor's logo on it hanging from a peg by the door and a valise near it on the floor that looked suspiciously like the one his fourth wife had given him as a wedding present, right before she'd put anti-freeze in his soup.

"I flew to Metropolis this morning to get it for you," Clark explained. "When you're ready, I'll fly you to the church. You'll be there in plenty of time."

Lex stared. He could have sworn he just heard Clark admitting to being Superman, but it must have been the hangover affecting his ears, because Clark didn't do things like that.

"By the way," Clark went on, as if nothing remotely earth-shattering had just occurred, "your housekeeper says you should burn those clothes you have on, because if you expect her to clean them, she's quitting."

Lex gave a tentative sniff in the direction of his underarm and made a face. "I may need to borrow some matches later. Good help _is_ hard to find."

"If you need anything else besides what I got you, just make a list. I can always fly back for it."

There Clark went again, tossing off the truth like he did that every day. It was rather much to deal with on the first morning of what Lex suspected was likely to be a multi-day hangover.

"Is there coffee?" he asked.

Clark nodded and rose to his feet. "I'll get it. Sit down. Make yourself at home."

He poured a mug and handed it to Lex, then moved over to the refrigerator and started pulling out food. Lex sipped his coffee gratefully and watched as Clark fried up eggs and bacon, made toast.

"I've heard this helps the morning after," Clark said, as he set the plate down before Lex.

Lex nodded his appreciation and dug in. Clark joined him at the table and drank his coffee, waiting for Lex to finish before starting on a the inevitable conversation.

"So," he said after Lex had pushed away his empty plate, "Bambi De Medici, huh?"

Lex didn't bother to answer. He was sure Clark had more—much more—to say on the subject.

"Have you gotten to know her at all, Lex?" Clark sounded rather exasperated.

"Everything I need to know," he replied serenely.

"Like that she's a serious psycho?"

"Why does everyone feel the need to slander my bride?" he asked with indignation, or at least a close approximation of it.

Clark's frustration was starting to slide into anger. "Because she's going to try to kill you!"

Lex waved his hand in the air, with a dismissive "pffft!"

"How can you be so blind?" Clark demanded.

"And how can you, and Bruce for that matter, be so quick to judge? Bambi has a few hapless relatives in psychiatric hospitals and some easily misinterpreted scholarship, and you assume the worst."

"She has a dungeon in the basement of her house, complete with a rack and iron maiden. A veritable arsenal of chainmail, maces and daggers. And stacked up on her nightstand, her bedtime reading, _The Poisoner's Almanac_ and _The Girl's Guide to Marrying for Money_."

"Bambi has a scholarly interest in medieval weapons and very broad tastes in literature. And, really, Clark, breaking and entering is still a felony in this state."

"I didn't break or enter, Lex," Clark corrected him. "I used my—" He waved his hand in front of his eyes. "You know."

"I have to tell you, Clark, this new forthrightness of yours is downright unsettling."

Clark shrugged. "You know. I know that you know. There doesn't seem any point not to acknowledge it."

"That never stopped you before," Lex reminded him.

"Yeah, well, I've made a lot of mistakes where you're concerned." Clark held his gaze. "I just wish we didn't have to keep paying for them."

It was a Rubicon kind of moment, and Lex chose what Caesar had not, to shy away from crossing that line where he couldn't turn back.

He cleared his throat, pushed his chair away from the table. "I'd better get moving. Even with the advantages of super-powered air travel, I don't have much time."

Clark leaned forward in his chair. "Don't marry her, Lex."

Lex acted as if he'd heard nothing. "Is it all right if I use the shower?"

Clark just stared at him for a moment, as if waiting for Lex to say something else, something more. When he didn't, Clark dropped his head, looking down at the table. "You know where it is. Clean towels in the cabinet."

Lex took his clothes and headed for the stairs. He half expected Clark to fling some parting insult at him—that was a Superman specialty—but there was only silence.

* * *

Upstairs, Lex locked the bathroom door, stripped off his clothes and noticed that his belt had, in fact, left quite a few marks. He stepped into the shower and closed his eyes while the hot water streamed over him. Too many thoughts crowded his head, about the wedding, about marriage. He could picture it, how the whole thing would go, from start to apocalyptic finish, frame by frame, every detail. That was the thing about these wives of his. They were all so predictable. He let out a sigh that from another man would have sounded a lot like resignation.

He stayed in the shower for as long as he possibly again—someone else might have seemed like he was hiding there—and then he got out, wrapped a towel around his waist, opened his toiletry kit. Clark had remembered his toothbrush. He brushed his teeth and stared at himself in the mirror, like he was someone he hardly recognized, a decision welling up in him. There were some things that once you'd started you just couldn't walk away from.

Sometimes you didn't have to cross the Rubicon; the Rubicon came to you. And Lex needed to go get dressed for it.

* * *

This time when he came downstairs, Clark was standing at the sink, staring out the window. "If you're ready, I'll change, and we can—" He turned around and stared.

It was hard to feel in control of a situation when you were standing there in too-big clothes that belonged to someone else. In fact, Lex felt rather like a fool in Clark's _Go, Crows!_ T-shirt. Only the way Clark's face went soft when he saw it made it at all tolerable.

"You're not going to the church," Clark said, as if he couldn't quite believe it.

Lex shrugged. "She was just going to try to kill me, anyway."

Clark's expression was too naked, and the moment ran awkward, both of them afraid of making any assumptions.

"I am puzzled by something, Clark. Why this goodwill all of a sudden? Why casually let your secrets drop like it's nothing to share them with me? Why now? If there was some detente declared between us, my staff neglected to inform me about it."

It was Clark's turn to shrug. "I don't know why now, Lex. Just—you get older, and you start to see things differently. Slowly you build up these realizations until one day you look back at your past, at the relationships you don't have anymore, and think: 'Wow, I really fucked that up'."

As admissions from Clark went this wasn't the most startling, and yet, it drew a matching one out of Lex, "I fucked up, too." He said it quietly, but it sounded enormous in the butter yellow stillness of the Kent family kitchen.

Clark's expression seemed to flower open at that, and Lex barely had time to absorb that heart-struck look before Clark was closing the gap between them, taking Lex's face in his hands. Lex used to dream almost every night about kissing fifteen year old Clark, how coltishly eager Clark would be, how Lex would guide him through it, teach him, his every touch consummately tender. This kiss was nothing like that. Clark had not been that boy for years and years, and he wrapped his arms around Lex like he knew exactly what he was doing and just what he wanted, practiced, confident. There was even something of Superman in the kiss, because Superman was really just Clark all grown up, and Lex found he didn't mind that so much.

When Lex pulled away at last, it was with the need for confession flaring in his chest. "I didn't cause the polar ice caps to speed up their melting or overthrow the government in Turkistan. But that thing about artificially inflating the price of gold—well—"

Clark gave him a crooked smile. "I know, Lex."

He cupped Lex's jaw and gave him another kiss. Lex kept his eyes open, as if seeing Clark in such close proximity might help him understand this, Clark forgiving, accepting him for just who he was. What _was_ the world coming to?

Clark hugged him, almost as if he could sense the tenor of Lex's thought, and mumbled against his shoulder, "I missed you." It came out choked, and Lex could feel a lump forming in his own throat.

He fought it off with a non-sequitur. "Bruce will be intolerably smug about this, you realize."

Clark nodded, his eyes still shining. "I do."

Those two words hung there between them for a moment, freighted with more than the usual significance given the circumstances. There were still so many questions about where they would go from here.

"Just promise me something, Clark."

He took Lex's hands in his. "When we get married, I swear that I will never try to kill you, Lex."

Lex felt the pleasant shock of the thought, being married to Clark, all through him.

He leaned in for another kiss. "Well, I was going to say, 'never mention me and your parents' bed in the same breath again.' But that's good, too."


End file.
